


A Crown To Match My Queen

by LWTIS



Series: SP K2 Week [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Hades/Persephone AU, M/M, no one gets kidnapped here, sp k2 week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: It is by accident that Kyle discovers the gate to the Underworld.Written for the SP K2 Week. //Day 2 - Rebel.//





	A Crown To Match My Queen

It is by accident that Kyle discovers the gate to the Underworld.

It is a hazy, gorgeous kind of day - the kind that encourages naps in the shades of oak trees or lazy paddling in the forest creek. The air is heavy with the scent of grass and a myriad of wildflowers. All Kyle has to do is sway, and dozens of buds spring from the ground, eager to bloom.  
He hadn't ventured this deep into the forest before. Under his mother's watchful, fretful eye, he grew up in the embrace of the valley, amongst its thick groves and cheery rivers. The forests had remained a mystery. A hundred years later, having come of age and his mother busy with harvest season, it was finally time to sate his curiosity.  
Now, he feels a little torn. Although lush and teeming with dozens of unfamiliar plants, the forest cannot live up to a decade's worth of fantasies.

He is debating strategies to convince Stan to join his next excursion when the entrance catches his eye.

It takes a few kicks to the crumbling rocks and harried tugs at vines to expose the door in all its glory. Onyx ebony arches high above him, unmarked save for two handles, bone-white and cold to the touch. He stares, frozen between curiosity and caution when he hears the wails.  
Muffled by the thick wood, almost inaudible until he presses his ear right against the cool surface - cries, voices wrecked by sorrow. Calling for help.  
He grabs onto the thick handle, the sudden rush of determination granting him the strength to tug the door open.

The blue flames are the first things that catch his eye.  
The path at the bottom of mossy steps stretches into a corridor, pitch black save for dozens of torches housing blazing blue fire. He doesn’t realise just how cold it got until a gust of wind hits him, chilly air wrapping around his bare calves. Suppressing a shiver, he rubs at his arms as he ventures further. Each branching path and doorway reveals something new - shelves full of scrolls, sprawling stone statues of monstrous creatures. The locked doors of a prison cell. The ceiling of one room seemingly melts into glass, exposing the swirling lights of the cosmos.  
What he doesn't find is the owner of the voices.

He is entertaining thoughts of tracking his trail with petals from his crown when footsteps break the silence.

“Cerberus!” a voice calls, heavy with sleep. A whistle follows. “Here, boy!” A rattle of a door later, the owner of the voice shuffles into view.

He is tall, with messy blonde hair and luminously pale skin. He carries himself with the crooked comfort of a retired grandfather, alone in his sanctuary. Wrapped around his frame is a well-worn robe in the most hideous shade of orange, with fluffy monstrosities on his feet to match.  
Kyle has no words, internally or aloud.  
The stranger sighs at the lack of response, raising the mug in his hand to his lips. His gaze, wandering idly, finally catches sight of the young god.

Kyle expects surprise. Anger, accusations at trespassing.  
What he doesn't expect is for the other to blanch, choking on his drink before disappearing in a crackle of smoke and magic.  
Leaving him alone and befuddled.

He gets five precious seconds to collect his bearings before more noise claims his attention. In the corner, a pair of eyes slowly blink open. Pale and luminescent, they find the redhead, flickering with obvious fascination. As if on command, a dozen more eyes flash around them.  
Before he can make a move to escape - or worse, scream and succumb to a heart attack - the eyes flutter shut and rush forwards. In a few seconds, there is a circle of mice around Kyle's feet.

“Oh.” he exhales, relief rushing through him in a single exhale.

The mice squeak at him, tilting their heads rather adorably. Once sure of his attention, they scurry out of the room and down the corridor. Their tails, he now takes note, are long, twisting appendages of bone.  
Kyle follows.

The mice lead him to a hall, startlingly large and bathed in flickering cyan light from countless torches. A faded mosaic stretches across the wall, depicting scenes from legends Kyle was familiar with. Pinned above, out of reach, are countless famous weapons - swords of kings, lances of victors, the bows of conquerors. They're mounted in a neat line - reduced to trophies and a pointed warning.  
A throne room.  
And sitting amidst a finely crafted seat of stone and skulls, is the figure from earlier.  
Fuzzy orange fabric has been replaced by midnight black, draped snug around his frame. His eyes, framed with kohl, sparkle in the same electric blue as the flames. A sweeping cape, draped over the arm of the throne, completes the look.  
The mice rush forwards, circling the throne. A few climb up to settle on the armrests, whilst others disappear under the folds of the cape. One brave one hops straight into the stranger’s lap, and gets his ears scratched as a reward. His gaze, when he meets Kyle's, is curious.

“You're not dead.”

Kyle blinks. “Not...to my latest knowledge.”

“How did you get down here then?”

“...Through a door. In the forest.” He cannot help but bristle a little at the look of scepticism aimed his way. “Your security is pretty lax.”

The stranger finds that funny, judging by his smile and shrug of admittance.

“In my defence, the main entrance is very well guarded. I don't suppose you've seen my dog on your way in, have you?”

“What breed is he?”

“The gigantic three headed kind. Black fur, weakness to compliments. Depending on his mood, he is either lap-sized or tall enough to damage my ceilings.”

Kyle is beginning to suspect he's being made fun of. He does not appreciate this in the slightest.

“...no. I’ve only seen mice. Sorry.”

The other shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “I’m sure he will turn up. It’s difficult to lose a dog with three heads.”

As Kyle digests that, the blonde pushes himself to his feet. The long, inky folds of his cloak sweep along the stairs as he closes the distance between the two of them. From the close proximity, Kyle can make out the faint freckles along his cheeks, the needle-like tip of his eyeliner.

“I apologise for my state earlier. Please, let me introduce myself properly.”

He curls a hand to his chest, nails gleaming with dark polish, and dips into a bow. “I'm Kenny. God of the Dead.”  
For a moment, Kyle can only stare.

“The King of the Underworld?” he blurts out, fighting the urge to cringe at the sound of his voice. Painted lips twitch as Kenny tilts his head. Kyle imagines his fingers would bleed if he tried running them along his jaw.

“I prefer ‘Queen’. But yes, the very same.” he replies easily. Like stuttering, starry-eyed gods just wandered into his home every day. “And your lovely self would be…?”

He is grateful that politeness has been drilled into him so vigilantly since birth, body moving to bow on instinct.

“Kyle. God of Spring.”

When he straightens back up, Kenny’s smile is still in place. Something akin to regret flashes through his eyes before he is stepping back.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Kyle. But you’re best off getting back before sunfall. I'll have my companions guide you back to the Land of the Living safely.”

And with a snap of his fingers and a flash of smoke, he’s gone.

\---

“Are you okay, bubbe? You’ve been very quiet since coming home.”

“I’m fine, Ma. Just tired.”

“If you say so. That reminds me - I’ve heard some disturbing rumours about the forest! People say they’ve heard screaming and moaning through the trees. Have you seen anything?”

“...No, Ma. Nothing of the sort.”

\---

He wasn't exactly _planning_ to go back.  
It's not like he lay awake for the better part of the night, vision drenched with cyan blue and foggy darkness every time he closed his eyes. It's not as if he could still feel the wind against his skin. It’s not as if he could recall the exact way the syllables of his name fell from the lips of the King - a figure familiar from his mother’s tales, taken a striking form in reality.

 _Just another look,_  he tells himself as he tugs the door open, thick woven cloak draped over his shoulders to protect against the chill. _Just a quick look._

The corridors are a little more familiar the second time around, prompting more confidence in his step as he ducks into rooms and picks at overflowing shelves, fingers leaving patterns in the thick layer of dust that seems to cover everything.

He is just about to open a dark teal door when he hears a growl behind him.  
The smell creeps up on him before he manages to turn around, hot and heavy. It is accompanied by a snarling beast sporting blunt claws and three sets of snapping jaws.  
So Kenny wasn’t toying with him the day before.  
There was only one thing to do.  
He swallows. Raises two slightly trembling hands. Steps forward with determination. Cerberus roars again, fangs each the size of Kyle's arm. He’s close enough so that the heat from his breath scorches his skin. Swallowing, he recalls his best friend from every time they encountered such a hairy beast.

“Who's a _good boy??_ ”

The beast halts in his tracks. Six eyes blink down at the redhead, chest still heaving.

“ _Who's a good boy?!”_ Kyle repeats, more insistently.

Slowly, the giant tail begins to wag. The panting renews, this time in anticipation.

 _“You! You're a good boy!”_  

By the time Kenny finds them, Cerberus has shrunk down to the size of a French bulldog, having decided that Kyle's lap is his new favourite seating place. He is busy fighting off the advances of three slobbery tongues when the God of the Dead makes his presence known with a cough. They share a long look before Kyle breaks the silence.

“I found your dog.”

“...so you have.” Kenny replies. His expression is twisted with exasperation - one that's directed at his dog. “...this is Cerberus. Guard of the Underworld. Although I'm seriously re-considering his position right now.”

The dog happily licks Kyle’s cheek before scuttling free, shooting off to the other end of the corridor. With a shake of his head, Kenny turns his attention back on his guest.

“....so. What brings you back to my gloomy realm so soon, Kyle?”

The younger god busies himself with wiping his cheek dry of celestial guardian drool. A hand drops into his vision, holding a black handkerchief - one he accepts gratefully.

“I didn't get a tour last time. I was curious.”

Cyan eyes light up with surprised mirth, followed by a bow that is definitely exaggerated.

“Well. Shall we go rectify that mistake?”

\---

In the stories, the King of the Underworld is a creature of terror - of gloom, monotony and cruelty, lacking the charm and the passion of his siblings.  
In reality, he is quick-witted, engrossing, just a little melodramatic and _funny_.  
(He really has to wonder who the blonde managed to upset to get so grossly misrepresented in the fables.)

One hour of the tour turned into two, which turned to five. Once Kyle’s legs were trembling with exertion, he was guided to a sitting room, where a drink and a soft seat awaited.  
He was usually much more restrained around strangers, reserved and self-edited to be a respectable deity. One to trust and respect. But Kenny - Kenny hung onto his words, questioning, teasing, coaxing whenever he hesitated for whatever matter. His mind, dark and brilliant, clashed and complemented Kyle’s own in the most fascinating of ways.  
He doesn’t notice falling asleep late into the night, cradled against the armrest of his seat.

In the morning, he wakes up tangled in the embrace of a familiar black cape. Lingering in the air is the scent of coffee. When he finds its source, he is both horrified and delighted to catch the sight of a familiar shade of shaggy orange.

“You need to burn this.” he says in lieu of a greeting, sliding into the seat opposite the other. Kenny just grins, nudging a mug in his direction.

“I could be persuaded. If you tell me another story first.”

\---

The Underworld is massive.

It’s a sprawling amalgamation of rooms dedicated to preserving history, and dungeons assigned for interrogation and torture. Some house monstrous creatures, disfigured beyond recognition, whilst others hold mementos from Kenny’s seemingly endless family, all pinned carefully to the wall.  
It’s both fascinating and terrifying.  
Kyle insists on being thorough, and Kenny rises readily to the challenge. There’s something new to see every day, something new to absorb, to collect, to _debate_ .  

He’s taken back to the room with the glass ceiling two days after his arrival. At the wave of Kenny’s hand, the stars twinkle with renewed intensity, joined by a spectacular comet cutting across the dark expanse of space.

“Is that not a sign of disaster?” he asks with some concern, shifting closer to Kenny.

“Why would it be?”

“...my mother always says comets are the harbingers of a disaster.”

Kenny’s smile is small and secret, almost lost in the pale light of the stars.

“I would like to think the arrival of something unexpected and beautiful can only be a harbinger for great things.”

\---

“I’m...not imposing, am I?’

Kenny’s gaze, previously fixed on the buds of the pomegranate tree, flickers over to him.“An odd question to ask after staying a week, Ky.”

Despite his teasing tone, the worlds have the redhead bristling.

“I don't need you to entertain me out of a sense of obligation.” he snaps. “Nor do I need to be...indulged. I'm not a child - if I'm imposing, I will go.”

“No!” The reply is quicker and fiercer than Kyle anticipated. Judging by how quickly Kenny tears his gaze away, he nurses similar feelings.

“Your presence is far from imposing.” he murmurs after a pause, fingers twisting at a stalk. The gaze that finds Kyle's is a little strained but very sincere. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

\---

And so he does.

\---

The more he sees of Kenny’s home, the more obvious some things become.  
Save for the throne room, the lounge and the kitchen, the rooms stand all but abandoned. Dust and neglect encrust most possessions, the items scattered around carelessly. Annoyance gradually morphs into concern when he is presented with a room of his own - and with it, access to the living quarters.  
It spoke volumes that Cerberus’ room was more inviting than where Kenny chose to sleep.

It's the mirrors, though, that claw at Kyle's thoughts the most. Every reflective surface is covered - with heavy velvet fabric or with a thick layer of soot.  
He takes the liberty of cleaning the mirror in his own room. When he returns in the evening, it greets him with a gleam - unchanged.

\---

Naturally, he is drawn to the garden.

Despite the complete absence of sunlight and the cool temperatures, there are trees that grow tall, sprawling branches heavy with fruit. Scattered around their trunks were ferns and mushrooms of frightening sizes, hats sparkling with fluorescent shades of blue. It's love at first sight.

“You're free to do what you wish with the plants.” Kenny tells him, struggling not to smile at Kyle's unveiled enthusiasm. “Just take care not to eat anything. By the ancient law, it would bind you to the Underworld.”

(So naturally, by the time he next pokes his head in, Kyle is covered in sap from nose to elbow, and has improved the efficiency of the pomegranate production by a good 50%.)

The only thing he cannot find anywhere are flowers.

“It only happens twice a year, for a few nights only, but the whole valley is just covered with anemones.” he recounts to Kenny one night, hands motioning in time with his story. “Have you ever seen a scarlet anemone in bloom?”

Kenny’s smile turns rueful, for just one second, as he shakes his head. “Can’t say I have.”

Instinctively, Kyle reaches to the side, fingers burning with familiar magic to call the flower to the surface. Seconds tick by, with no response - and no result.  
Frowning, he tries again, skin tingling with the effort. Growing plants and making flowers blossom is usually as easy as breathing - but this time, it takes an inordinate amount of concentration until the ground finally crumbles, a shaky sprout poking its head through. By the time Kenny slowly kneels down next to him, it has blossomed into a small, delicate flower.  

“That’s the one.” Kyle declares, voice a little breathless. Feeling lightheaded and just a little giddy with victory, he plucks the flower free and presents it to the other God.   

As soon as the blonde’s fingers brush against the flower, black bleeds into the red, petals crumpling in a few seconds.  

Eyes widening with horror, Kyle splutters an apology, shame at producing such a weak flower curdling in his throat - until Kenny cuts him off with a shake of his head. The smile on his face is empty - tired. Resigned.

“Don't beat yourself up over it. It's to be expected, unfortunately.” he says. “Everything I touch dies.”

Later, tucked under the navy covers and wrapped in darkness, he wonders if that's the reason why Kenny never touches him.

\---

In hindsight, he should have chosen a different flower.

\---

As the God of Death, it was Kenny’s duty to judge the souls of the deceased.

From his tales, Kyle gathered that most souls don't wind up in the throne room. Those who lived virtuous lives or ones that were too unremarkable to note are taken straight to the Asphodel Meadows. Souls weighed down by horrendous sin are often locked away centuries at a time, too deep to hear them scream. This still left Kenny with dozens and dozens of souls to judge.  
It is a long, often monotonous and - in Kyle's humble opinion - really depressing job. Still, he doesn't regret accepting the invitation to join the blonde in the throne room. It's an opportunity to observe a different side to him - the regal, the commanding, the experienced. The rightful Queen. He gives each soul a chance to speak before his final ruling, taking their side into consideration (however briefly). He is firm but fair, and even after several hours, Kyle cannot pinpoint a decision he's disagreed with.

(Plus there's something about sitting right by Kenny’s side, whilst the others have to mill around at the bottom of the stairs, prohibited from coming closer.)

Most deceased are too overwhelmed to offer protest. There is the occasional deceased that tries to beg. Some argue. Some cannot help but gloat when their deeds are neatly summarised, expressing no regret whatsoever. Those are the hard ones.  
One of these individuals is holding up the line, his history and his voice making Kyle's stomach turn. He is certain he could still see the blood under the man's nails if he squinted. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kenny’s grip on the arm of his throne tighten. He understands the sentiment completely.

“You do not understand!” the deceased repeats for the third time, voice dripping in entitlement. “You _must listen to -_ “

“How dare you.”

A hush falls over the room immediately. All gazes collectively turn to the small, trembling figure next to the throne.

“Who -" the soul, aghast, begins. Kyle doesn't let him finish. He has heard _enough_.

“ _How dare you._ ” he all but hisses, eyes narrow slits of fury. “You disrespected your parents and exploited their kindness for coin. You led a life of lies and indulgence, didn't shy away from violence to get what you wanted!” He has risen to his feet at one point, looming above the rapidly greying face of the deceased.

“Nothing was sacred! Not your friends, family, the sweet girl who was your intended! And now - now you stand in the Underworld and think you can _bargain_?!”

The deceased’s knees give out at that exact moment. If he still had a corporal body, he suspects he would have soiled himself. Kyle doesn’t bother masking his disgust.  

“You will accept your fate. I'd say do so with dignity, but that ability is clearly beyond you.”

And with that, he turns and re-takes his seat.

With the usual delay, his thoughts catch up with his actions, ebbing fury replaced by icy cold agitation. He glances to the side - only to be met with a grin.

“Very well said.” The Queen’s voice is almost a purr, eyes as dark as his tone. He drops his gaze to the cowering soul at the bottom of the stairs. “Any further questions?”

There were none.

\---

It’s only when he finally catches his breath and casts his eyes around the room that he notices the petals around his chair, scattered all across the floor. They’re purple, bleeding into midnight blue, and are very, very much alive.

\---

He doesn't know what drives him to rise at stupid hours of the morning, fingers digging into the soil after each failed attempt, pushing through exhaustion for more magic.  
The desire to impress, the desire to help, the desire to prove him wrong in his pessimistic conclusions.  
The desire to be able to gift the other something.  
It takes hours. Days. He loses count.  
But finally, just as the owl’s distant cry signals the end of the day, he succeeds.  

Kenny’s expression is almost comical when he opens his door, eyes wide with concern at Kyle’s harried appearance.

“...where have you been crawling around? There’s a little family of spiders in your hair!”

He rolls his eyes, no patience for the other god’s teasing. “Come. I have something to show you.”

He had chosen a little remote corner of the gardens, far away from the pomegranate trees. He successfully keeps the blonde distracted with idle chatter on their way there, eyes fixed on Kenny’s face to ensure he didn’t miss his reaction.  
He doesn’t have to wait long. Halfway through his sentence, Kenny stumbles to a halt, frozen in shock. His lips part in a silent exclamation, and the sight sends a shiver down Kyle’s spine.

“...how?” he croaks out.

Allowing the smile to creep onto his face, Kyle spreads his arms, as if attempting to encompass the whole of the now-flower filled corner of the garden. With the motion, more spring from the ground.

“I approached it wrong this whole time. It wasn’t the fact flowers couldn’t grow here.” he explains, grin wide. The bright purple presence of the violas all around him are making him giddy with pride. “I was just trying to grow the wrong kinds of flowers.” He reaches for the other, still stuck at the precipice of the garden. “Come! Have a closer look.”

“I don’t want to ruin your hard work.” Kenny says slowly, words visibly painful for him to say. “You saw what happened last time.”

“That was different - different magic, different needs. These flowers love the shade, the cool air. They just need water and your attention.”

“...Kyle, everything I touch d-”

With a surge of impatience flashing through him, Kyle closes the distance between them in a few determined stomps. His fingers - red from the effort, with soil under his nails - wrap around Kenny’s own - pale, wound up, tense.  
His skin is surprisingly warm.

“See?” he prompts, gripping just a little tighter. If his heart wasn’t beating so fast, he would have started laughing at Kenny’s stricken expression. “No-one’s dying.”

A part of him would have given at least one limb to know just why the other god was so certain he was destined for loneliness and misery. Another part of him was terrified and already angry in anticipation.

“And I _know_ these flowers won’t die - because I grew them for you.”

Slowly, as if scared to break the magic, Kenny’s fingers curl against Kyle’s. When he raises his free hand to brush against his cheek, he cannot quite stop the trembling.

“Thank you, Kyle.” The words are quiet but heartrendingly fervent. Coupled with the precious touch at his face, it’s not unlike a punch to the gut.  _“Thank you.”_

  
_Illustration by[xMadi ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xMadi/pseuds/xMadi)<3_

He stares into bright blue eyes, warm and liquid with gratitude and joy, fingers idly brushing against messy red locks to relocate the spider family -  
And thinks,  
_Oh shit._

\---

(Cerberus is partial to the lily of the valleys. Kyle is pleased - right until three sets of teeth began tearing curiously at the stalks.)

\---

He is happier - more fulfilled, more enthused for life - then he remembers ever being. So of course, it cannot last long.

He is carrying two mugs towards the garden, attention fixed on the dog winding his way around his legs with every step. Suddenly, Cerberus goes still, ears perking up - and then he shoots off ahead, expanding in size with every step.  
Confused, Kyle hurries after him, almost spilling the drinks when he hears Kenny raise his voice.

“I would never kidnap anyone and keep them here against their will!”

“I know, Kenny.”

The second voice is deeper, amplified by the stone walls. It’s oddly familiar.

Just as he steps closer in hopes of hearing better, Cerberus betrays their presence with a loud bark. Right away, both Kenny and his guest to turn their heads their way.  
The stranger has the same nose and the same eyes as his host. But it’s his smile and the finely embroidered lightning bolts on his tunic that give his identity away before he gets the chance to introduce himself.

“Your Majesty.” he chokes out, knees bending hastily, just about managing not to spill his drinks.

“Kyle.” he replies kindly, patiently waiting for the younger god to gather himself. “It’s a pleasure to a finally meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

He lifts his head, alarmed. When he sneaks a glance at Kenny, the blonde’s expression is stoic and blank. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Kevin clears his throat.

“Your mother believes you have been kidnapped and are kept here against your will.”

He can only gape for a moment, “N- _no_ ! I am here entirely out of my own will, Kenny would _never_ \- “

“This is what I told her too but she was adamant.” Kevin - his _brother, Kenny’s brother, the King of Mt Olympus_ \- says, voice rueful. “She has abandoned all her duties in protest, and allowed all the crops in the human realm to die.” His expression darkens. “I have known her for centuries, and I don’t believe she will relent. Even if they all starve to death.”

Kyle knows his mother well enough to know this is not an exaggeration. Even so, he struggles to think of something - anything - to offer as an alternative. As if sensing his thoughts, Kevin shakes his head.

“I have tried everything I could, but I cannot allow the mortals to perish over this dispute. I am sorry.”

The flash of misery across the blonde’s expression is brief - but it cuts through Kyle like a knife regardless. In a blink, it’s gone, and Kenny is lowering his head, voice weighed with resignation.

“I understand.”

His brother clasps his shoulder, expression regretful before he slips back into the role of a King, firm and unquestionable.

“I will see the both of you on Olympus tomorrow at noon.”

And right then, Kyle knows what he has to do.

\---

It’s easy enough to pluck a fruit from the trees and slip it into his pocket. It’s simple enough to retreat into his room after their quiet meal, claiming to need a moment alone.    
The door locks with a twist of a key. Between his palms, the pomegranate splits into two under the blade of his knife, seeds gleaming like rubies. Carefully, he plucks the seeds loose.

One. Two  
The first bite makes him flinch, the fruit shockingly cold against his tongue. It only intensifies as he crushes them under his teeth.  
Three. Four.  
He does not expect the taste to be so sharp, once the chill subsides. So sweet and tart.  
Five. Six.  
The reflection that greets him in the mirror is barely recognisable to the image he holds familiar. Eyes blazing, hair in disarray, teeth and lips stained blood red from the fruit.  
He likes it.

\---

His lips are still tainted crimson when Kenny opens his doors.  
Kyle expected relief, exhilaration - some form of happiness when he tells the other, rushing to get the words out. Instead, Kenny’s expression stutters before going carefully blank. Only his eyes, wide and gleaming, hint at his emotions.  

“...you have...bound yourself to the Underworld.”

“Yes.” Kyle repeats. A small seed of panic starts burrowing itself into his throat.

“To defy your mother?”

Kenny’s tone is suspiciously light. It makes Kyle frown, thoughts chasing themselves in circles before realisation hits him.

“No!” he all but yells, wavering at the responding sceptical look. “Well, yes, but that’s a small part of it. The bigger - the overwhelmingly bigger is part - is that I want to stay!”

It’s a relief to say out loud. As Kenny’s mask crumbles, expression lighting up with hope, he can only wonder why it took him so long.

“I want to stay here. With _you._ ”

He barely finishes speaking before hands are cupping his cheeks. A thumb brushes over his lower lip, smearing the red across soft skin before lips are pressing against his own.

Kenny kisses like he argues, like how he plays  - without reserve and just a little dirty. There are fingers in his hair, and playful teeth at his lips and he just _melts._ Hands sliding to his waist, Kenny pulls back just long enough to tug Kyle into his room.

\---

He helps the other get dressed the next morning, nimble fingers fastening the sweeping cloak around his shoulders. In turn, Kenny assists with the ties of his tunic, taking time to ensure every flower in his wreath is in place. He is tying the laces of his sandals when there’s a chuckle behind him.

“Ah. Are you sure you want to wear this tunic?”

“Why? What's wrong with it?”

Lips twitching, Kenny’s fingers gently tap the back of his thigh, applying the barest pressure over a bitemark left exposed. It’s just enough to make him shudder, the memories making his cheeks flush.

“Yes. Let them see.”

\---

It’s been a while since Kyle last visited Mt Olympus. He remembers the gleaming white marble, the polished accents of gold. The seemingly endless river of food and wine that he was always too young to properly partake in.  
The view is quite different when he arrives in the back of a four-horse chariot, with the ruler of the Underworld at his side. Kenny’s grip on his hand is firm as he helps the redhead down, and it remains so as they walk through the halls. He only pulls away to push the doors open.

They are greeted by chaos.  
What follows their announcement is pure pandemonium.

There are screams. Collective gasps. Insults are yelled, more wine is demanded. Scattered discussions about the hypothetical size of Kyle’s balls can be heard. A nearby tree’s leaves wither before bursting into flames, just as Sheila’s voice rises to a screech.

“Do we even observe those laws anymore?” he hears Wendy ask. Stan, head already in his hands, is too busy stifling his laughter to reply. Next to them, Craig primly slides his hands over his familiar’s ears, attempting to shield him from the noise. An arrow flies across the room, barely missing poor Clyde.

_“Enough!”_

Kevin’s voice, loud enough to make the pillars tremble, cuts through the discord. He swallows down a sigh, mouth set in a hard edge. (His youngest sibling is less bothered by formality, clapping enthusiastically with an open grin.)

“Kyle. Did you know the consequences of eating food from the Underworld?”

“I did.”

“Was it out of your own volition?”

He can feel his mother’s eyes on him. His knees wobble in response, but he manages to meet her gaze, voice steady. “Completely my own.”

“Then I see nothing to argue about.” the King concludes. He turns to the seething goddess, raising a hand as she draws in a sharp breath. “I understand your frustration, Sheila, but the laws are the laws, and your son is of age. We cannot start picking and choosing when we wish to abide by them.”

“So I should just stand by and accept this - this atrocity?!” Sheila spits, eyes glistening with rage. “Let my son be stolen away, defiled, kept in the Underworld as some sort of trophy?!”

Kyle opens his mouth, but its another's voice that answers.

“Certainly not, my good lady.” the God of Death replies, tone one of utmost respect. The lurking smirk ruins the effect somewhat. “He would _never_ be a trophy. He already has a position, a title much nobler.”

Sheila bristles, her hair rising around her face like a magnificent mane. “Oh _really?_  And what would that be?”

“Why, King of the Underworld, of course.”

And with that - in front of the entire celestial court - Kenny drops to his knee with a graceful sweep of his long cloak. Right in front of Kyle. Cool fingers grasp his own, lifting it just high enough to press his lips against the back of his hand.

\---

 

_Epilogue_

In the end (after much shouting and a few tears), they reach an understanding. Kyle will spend six months - one for each seed - in the Underworld. The rest of the year, he will spend in the realm of the living.

All in all, considering the circumstances and his mother, not a bad deal.

\---

“Bubbe, why such dark flowers for your crown?”

His hand moves to adjust the wreath at the enquiry, meeting her gaze with a smile.

“It’s a challenge, to see if I can keep these flowers in bloom under the heat and the sunlight.”

She nods, seemingly pleased. The return to the realm of the living hadn’t been easy - for either of them. He suspects things could never truly go back to the way they were - but the thought fills him with hope rather than dread. It’s that feeling that encourages him to tell her the full truth.

“It also matches the crown of my Queen.”

\---

The Messenger of the Gods has a letter for him when he returns from the fields.

Jimmy’s smile is impish and bright when he slips the scroll between Kyle’s eager hands. His words are playful to match before he is gone in a flash of feathers.  
The paper is still cool to the touch, despite the heat of the summer. If he tries, he thinks he can smell the scent of the lilies on the surface.

 _Thank you for the gift. It is stunning, and it has made judging the souls of the deceased a very entertaining experience. Many are so flabbergasted that they forget to argue about my ruling. It’s a refreshing change.  
_ _Jimmy has assured me I look very fetching. I can’t wait to hear your judgement on it too - I hope it ends with one of us on our backs._

_My brother is organising a celebration at Midsummer Eve. The perfect opportunity to wear that tunic of yours that leaves your shoulders bare, don’t you think?_

_I miss you. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.  
_ _Counting down the days until you’re home again._

\---

AN:

 _EDIT:5/12/18:_ I had the absolute pleasure of commissioning [xMadi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xMadi/pseuds/xMadi) for an illustration of this story and OH MY GOD DID SHE DELIVER. It came out so incredibly stunning, I am struck all sorts of speechless. Please check out her [artblog](https://www.instagram.com/madii__madii/) \- she is incredibly talented and and an absolute sweetheart on top of it all. Thank you so much Madi!!! <3 <3 <3 

This monster blindsided me and completely messed up my writing schedule for this challenge. But I am very pleased with how it came out, so we'll call it even for now.  
Flowers mentioned are from this [ article here ](https://www.rd.com/home/gardening/shade-flowers/).

Please check out all the [ main blog for K2 Week on Tumblr ](https://k2-week.tumblr.com/) and also the [ tag! ](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/sp-k2-week) And whilst you're there, [ hit me up! ](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/) :)


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